


Weeds

by saliache



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Yavanna is a tree, and Nerdanel knows exactly what she is doing, in which Ñolo has had enough, stoner elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: "Suddenly I have a need for hilarious stoner elves." </p><p>Or, how Yavanna managed to ruin Indis' birthday party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weeds

Ñolofinwë probably should have been more concerned about his half-brother, but it looked like Nerdanel had it well in hand. She and Yavanna had taken over a corner of the great hall and were wreathed in a thick cloud of strange-smelling smoke, Fëanáro lying calmly across their laps. Well, across Nerdanel’s lap. Yavanna had taken tree-form again, and her roots were digging into the marble, making for a very uncomfortable bed indeed. Her branches creaked cheerfully. 

"Uncle," Maitimo hissed conspiratorially in his ear. "Look what I found!" He held up Fëanáro’s unsheathed sword and swung it gracelessly. Ñolofinwë yelped as it nearly lopped off his ear. 

"Be careful with that! Have you-" a thought struck him. "Have you been hanging around your mother lately?" 

Maitimo grinned at him; Ñolofinwë groaned and decided to avoid whatever Nerdanel had hatched up this time. 

"Here. Take it." Maitimo offered the sword. "I’m off to find Findekáno and some food. And maybe some nice, soft hay to roll around in.” 

Ñolofinwë was about to point out that hay wasn’t soft at all when Maitimo dropped his father’s sword and wandered off aimlessly. He picked the weapon up; it was of fine make (finer than any he could make; he squashed the thought) and in good condition. It would be a shame to let it go. Besides, his brother might get ideas. 

The sound of his father singing alerted him to trouble. Fëanáro’s voice joined in shortly, and the sound of their rich voices echoing through the hall would have been beautiful if they had not been singing a forge-song with very  _particular_ innuendos. This was Indis’ begetting-day celebration, for the Valar’s sake! 

Sure enough, both his father and his brother were now ensconced in a small grove of trees Yavanna had somehow grown in the few minutes he had taken his eyes off her. The cloud of smoke was now stronger than ever. He was debating whether entering a psychoactive state would be worth saving his father’s reputation (Fëanáro’s could rot for all he cared) when Finwë suddenly rose, dragging Fëanáro along. 

"Ñolofinwë!" he called genially, finally exiting out of the smoke cloud. Fëanáro stumbled along behind him. Nerdanel, still inside the smoke, pulled a ripe pear off of Yavanna and took a bite. "We are headed in search of foodstuffs!" 

"And Father wanted to ask if you wanted to come along," Fëanáro finished grudgingly. His cheeks flushed in a most interesting manner as Finwë nudged him. 

"Itwillbelikeafamilyouting not that-" Finwë prodded him harder this time, and he shut up. 

Ñolofinwë could smell the smoke-scent clinging to his clothes even at this distance, and reconsidered. “I’m not hungry,” he lied, and made his escape into the garden. 

Macalaurë saw him passing by and gave him a sympathetic look. Belatedly, Ñolofinwë remembered he still held his brother’s sword. 

"I don’t suppose you’d want to return this to wherever your father keeps his weaponry, do you? I don’t think we want him near anything sharp or pointy just now." 

To his credit, Macalaurë looked unsurprised. “Has he been at it with Mother and Yavanna again?” 

Ñolofinwë winced. “He and Father are likely to embarrass themselves in front of all Tirion if they keep going at it. But I will not complain; he is much less disagreeable in this state.” 

"I suppose it’s just as well," Macalaurë sighed. “Elsewise he might have done something stupid. Like use his sword instead of his wits.” 


End file.
